The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Frederic ManningRelease date: September 1, 2013 [eBook #43615]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by D Alexander, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: PoemsAuthor: Frederic ManningRelease date: September 1, 2013 [eBook #43615]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by D Alexander, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)

Title: Poems

Author: Frederic Manning

Release date: September 1, 2013 [eBook #43615]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by D Alexander, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by Frederic Manning

FREDERIC MANNING

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

1910

PRINTED BY

HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,

LONDON AND AYLESBURY.

LLE. and RYLLIS

WITH MY LOVE

"NOON" appeared originally inThe Atlantic Monthly, "Canzone" inThe Spectator, and "Kore" inThe English Review. I am indebted to the Editors of these Reviews for permission to include them in this volume.

F. M.

CONTENTS

TO J. G. FAIRFAX

Noon smote down on the field,Burning on spears and helms,Shining from Theseus' shield.As a wave of the sea that whelmsA rock, and its crest uprears,Through the wreck of the trampled wheatThe charge of the charioteersThundering broke. A sleetVeiled light, and the air was alive,As with hissing of snakes, as with swarmsOf the Spring by a populous hive,As with wind, and the clamour of storms:So hurtled the arrowy hailLoosed from the Amazon ranks,Smote ringing on brazen mail,Struck fanged through the shuddering flanksOf the stallions; and half were hurledIn the dust, and broken, and brayedBy the chariots over them whirled,Which, eager and undismayed,Swept ruining on to the hordesOf the Amazonian camp,With the lightning of terrible swords;Till the dead were heaped, as a rampFor the quick. But the chariots shockedOn the thicket of close-set spears;And the long ranks reeled, and rocked,Broke; and the charioteersWent through them, cleaving as ploughsCleave earth: they were rent, and tossedWith the tumult of tortured boughs.And the stallions, with foam embossed,Fought, tearing each other with teeth,In the red, blind rage of their lust,Screaming; and writhed underneathThe wounded, trodden as mustOf the grapes trodden out in the press,Empurpling the knees, and bareThighs of the men. Through the stressOf their shoulders drove as a share,Hippolyta. Avenging she came;And they streamed, and they surged round her car,The women: her face was a flameAs she rode through the tempest of war;And they cried, made glad with the sight,As those desiring the dawn,When the darkness is cloven by light,Cry for gladness: they rallied, upborne,When she rayed as the sun through their cloud.But she strung the bow, and she prayedUnto Artemis, calling aloud,As a maid might call to a maid;And the Goddess of shining browsHeard, as she paused from the chaceUpon Tainaros hoary with snows;And a shadow darkened her face:A shadow, and then a rayLightening, glorying, smiled,As her thought pierced years to a dayUnborn, and an unborn child,With the pure fount of his praiseLifted to her, from the shrineRock-hewn, at the three cross-waysIn a waste of hills, as wineGladdening her; and she shedA wonder, a terror, a fear,A beauty that filled with dread,A glory no eyes might bearOn her maid; stooped, hushed, from the heightHer thought, as a bird on the wing,Rained down from her, swifter than light.Hippolyta notched on the stringAn arrow, and loosed it, and smote,As he drove at her car with a jest,Agelaus, cleaving his throatSpeechless; and smote through the breastPolytherses; and Euenor thenFelt the teeth of the flints at his veins,As his mares dragged him back to his menAll bloody, entangled in reins;Then Damastor she smote: and they fledAs doves or as linnets flyWhen a hawk that has towered overheadStoops, ravening, out of the skyOn their quires. But her arrows sighedAfter them, swifter than feet:They ran, shrieked, stumbled, and died,Shot through with her shafts. In the wheat,With the sunlight gilding their greaves,Helmets, and shields, and mail,They lay, strewn thickly as leavesWhen Autumn has swung his flail.But afar, where Thermodon rolledThe deep, swift strength of its floodTo the ocean turbidly gold,Drave Theseus, eager for blood;And as herds stampede in affrightAt the reek of the beast in the airPrecipitately through the nightWhen a lion forth comes from his lair,So the women before him fledIn a rout, headlong, overborne,For he drave as a beast all red,With the blood of the prey he had torn,Circled them round; they were rent,Whirled under him, flung from him, farSeaward, and lost; until spent,Heaped in a mound by her carBroken, and dying, and dead,Hippolyta saw. And she fled.Theseus followed. Afar,Over the storm of the spears,He had seen her face as a starShine; and no tremble of tearsSoftened her terrible eyes,Cruel they shone there, and blueWith the beauty of windless skies.But her bowstring ever she drew,Loosening arrows that sangThrough the air exulting as wind;And the clamour of battle rangMost by her car, while behindThe fierce, wild women upheldTheir queen, and their anger burnedIn staring eyeballs. She felledA man as her car overturned,Sped onward, her swift white feetThe dead and the dying spurnedWho lay in the wasted wheat.Theseus followed his preyAs a lean hound follows the fleetQuarry: the dusty waySmoked with the speed of his feet.She was swift; but he burned in the chace:He was flame, he was sandalled with fire,Hungering after her face,With a fury, a lust, a desire,As a hound that whines for the bloodOf the hart flying winged with fear;And she yearned, and she longed for the wood,Seeming far from her still, though near,And she strained, and she panted, and pressed,With her head flung backward for breath,And the quick sobs shaking her breast,Agonised, now, as by death,Fearing utterly, fighting with fate,Stumbling. And swifter behind,With a love made hot by his hate,Strained he pursuing. The wind,Lifted, and played with the foldOf her chlamys; and showed made bareThe swift limbs shining, as goldFrom sunlight, and streamed through her hairAs wind in a cresset of fire,As tresses of flame in the night,While she fled, desired, from desire,Till the brakes hid the flame from his sight.Yea, but no long time he stood,As one who resigns the prizeWhen a moment baffled. The woodHid her indeed from his eyes,But the track of her feet lay cleanAs the slot of a deer in the grass.Slower he followed, and keenWere his downcast eyes. As a glassA wide lake gleamed in the ebbOf the latest tide of the light;Stars shone clear through the webOf the branches, beckoning night;The leaves fell softly, giltWith autumn, and tawny and red;And the blue of the skies lay spilt,Pooled, shining, from late rains shed;The tall reeds seemed to dreamBy the full lake's murmuring marge.She paused by a chiming stream,Listened awhile, hung her targeFrom a tree with her unstrung bow,Loosened her breast-plate and greaves,Bathing her limbs: and slow,Like a snake through the fallen leaves,Theseus crept on his prize,Paused, to gaze on her grace,The fine clean curve of the thighs,Pure brow, and well-chiselled face,Beautiful knees, and the playOf muscles, splendidly wrought.Theseus leapt on his prey.Laughing softly, he soughtEase from desire as a flame:Struggled she still, and fought,Calling on Artemis' name,Who went, unheeding her prayer,Beyond Tainaros streaming with floods,Till the cries came faint through the air,Dwindling among the woods,For the numberless tongues of the leavesEchoed with myriad criesLow, and as plaintive as grievesThe wood under darkening skies.The quick, sharp sobs from her breastCame thick, and she, to whom spearsHurtling close were a zestTo battle, felt the hot tearsWell and fall from her eyes,Struggled not long, lay still.Theseus stooped on his prize,Drank of her lips his fill.

Theseus followed. Afar,Over the storm of the spears,He had seen her face as a starShine; and no tremble of tearsSoftened her terrible eyes,Cruel they shone there, and blueWith the beauty of windless skies.But her bowstring ever she drew,Loosening arrows that sangThrough the air exulting as wind;And the clamour of battle rangMost by her car, while behindThe fierce, wild women upheldTheir queen, and their anger burnedIn staring eyeballs. She felledA man as her car overturned,Sped onward, her swift white feetThe dead and the dying spurnedWho lay in the wasted wheat.Theseus followed his preyAs a lean hound follows the fleetQuarry: the dusty waySmoked with the speed of his feet.She was swift; but he burned in the chace:He was flame, he was sandalled with fire,Hungering after her face,With a fury, a lust, a desire,As a hound that whines for the bloodOf the hart flying winged with fear;And she yearned, and she longed for the wood,Seeming far from her still, though near,And she strained, and she panted, and pressed,With her head flung backward for breath,And the quick sobs shaking her breast,Agonised, now, as by death,Fearing utterly, fighting with fate,Stumbling. And swifter behind,With a love made hot by his hate,Strained he pursuing. The wind,Lifted, and played with the foldOf her chlamys; and showed made bareThe swift limbs shining, as goldFrom sunlight, and streamed through her hairAs wind in a cresset of fire,As tresses of flame in the night,While she fled, desired, from desire,Till the brakes hid the flame from his sight.

Yea, but no long time he stood,As one who resigns the prizeWhen a moment baffled. The woodHid her indeed from his eyes,But the track of her feet lay cleanAs the slot of a deer in the grass.Slower he followed, and keenWere his downcast eyes. As a glassA wide lake gleamed in the ebbOf the latest tide of the light;Stars shone clear through the webOf the branches, beckoning night;The leaves fell softly, giltWith autumn, and tawny and red;And the blue of the skies lay spilt,Pooled, shining, from late rains shed;The tall reeds seemed to dreamBy the full lake's murmuring marge.She paused by a chiming stream,Listened awhile, hung her targeFrom a tree with her unstrung bow,Loosened her breast-plate and greaves,Bathing her limbs: and slow,Like a snake through the fallen leaves,Theseus crept on his prize,Paused, to gaze on her grace,The fine clean curve of the thighs,Pure brow, and well-chiselled face,Beautiful knees, and the playOf muscles, splendidly wrought.Theseus leapt on his prey.

Laughing softly, he soughtEase from desire as a flame:Struggled she still, and fought,Calling on Artemis' name,Who went, unheeding her prayer,Beyond Tainaros streaming with floods,Till the cries came faint through the air,Dwindling among the woods,For the numberless tongues of the leavesEchoed with myriad criesLow, and as plaintive as grievesThe wood under darkening skies.The quick, sharp sobs from her breastCame thick, and she, to whom spearsHurtling close were a zestTo battle, felt the hot tearsWell and fall from her eyes,Struggled not long, lay still.Theseus stooped on his prize,Drank of her lips his fill.

The wind wails overhead,With a grieving sore;And the little souls of the deadBeat on the door.Crying: Light and a fire,We have travelled farOver the plowed fields' mire.Will ye lift the bar?Would ye have us go all nightOn the windy ways,Who were strong men once in the lightOf our own days?Ours are the fields ye plow,And ye sow our wheat:Let us stretch our hands to the glowOf the warm, red peat.We, who have lain in earthFor a long dark year,Crave for our own old hearth,And ye will not hear.

The wind wails overhead,With a grieving sore;And the little souls of the deadBeat on the door.

Crying: Light and a fire,We have travelled farOver the plowed fields' mire.Will ye lift the bar?

Would ye have us go all nightOn the windy ways,Who were strong men once in the lightOf our own days?

Ours are the fields ye plow,And ye sow our wheat:Let us stretch our hands to the glowOf the warm, red peat.

We, who have lain in earthFor a long dark year,Crave for our own old hearth,And ye will not hear.

O quiring voices of the sleepless springs,O night of beauty, calm and odorous,O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless singsThe passion of thy music amorous,My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer,Is choric through an April plenilune;My music but a rapture in the air,A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June.

O quiring voices of the sleepless springs,O night of beauty, calm and odorous,O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless singsThe passion of thy music amorous,

My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer,Is choric through an April plenilune;My music but a rapture in the air,A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June.

Ah, my heart! my heart! It is weary without her.I would that I were as the winds which play about her!For here I waste and I sicken, and nought is fairTo mine eyes: nor night with stars in her clouded hair,Nor all the whitening ways of the stormy seas,Nor the leafy twilight trembling under the trees:But mine hands crave for her touch, mine eyes for her sight,My mouth for her mouth, mine ears for her footfalls light,And my soul would drink of her soul through every sense,Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense,For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain.But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain,Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves,And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves.

TO YNEZ STACKABLE

In the soul of man there are many voices,That silence wakens, and sound restrains:A song of love, that the soul rejoices,With windy music, and murmuring rains;A song of light, when the dawn arises,And earth lies shining, and wet with dew;And life goes by, in a myriad guises,Under a heaven of stainless blue.The willows, bending over the river,Where the water ripples between the reeds,Where the shadows sway, and the pale lights quiverOn floating lily, and flowing weeds,Have whispering voices, soft as showersOf April falling on upland lawns,On the nodding harebell, and pale wind-flowers,Through silver evens, and golden dawns.But softer than love, and deeper than longingAre the sweet, frail voices of drifting ghosts;In the soul of man they are floating, throngingAs wind-blown petals, pale, flickering hosts.

In the soul of man there are many voices,That silence wakens, and sound restrains:A song of love, that the soul rejoices,With windy music, and murmuring rains;

A song of light, when the dawn arises,And earth lies shining, and wet with dew;And life goes by, in a myriad guises,Under a heaven of stainless blue.

The willows, bending over the river,Where the water ripples between the reeds,Where the shadows sway, and the pale lights quiverOn floating lily, and flowing weeds,

Have whispering voices, soft as showersOf April falling on upland lawns,On the nodding harebell, and pale wind-flowers,Through silver evens, and golden dawns.

But softer than love, and deeper than longingAre the sweet, frail voices of drifting ghosts;In the soul of man they are floating, throngingAs wind-blown petals, pale, flickering hosts.

Yea! even such as creepWith eyes bent earthward, in the little spaceBetween the dawn and waning of the day,Between a sleep and sleep:Even these, without a fixed abiding-place,Travel, though tardily, upon the wayLabouring; while your lighter, swifter sailSoars, rising over sudden hills of foam,Exultant, through the storm; and, eager, fliesLike a fleet swallow up to meet the gale,That drives with anger, through the heaven's dome,Clouds, like great silver galleons in a sea of skies.For every man, and each,Is like a venture putting forth to sea,Voyaging into unknown ways to findKindlier lands; and urges on to reachKingdoms which there may beHidden the grey gloom of the sea behind:Fabulous kingdoms piled with golden toilAnd the slow garnering of mortal dreams:Such as lured forth the splendid sails of Spain.So, journeying, we, in hope of that great spoil,Steer hardily through all conflicting streamsOf Ocean, and count all the exultant battling gain.

For every man, and each,Is like a venture putting forth to sea,Voyaging into unknown ways to findKindlier lands; and urges on to reachKingdoms which there may beHidden the grey gloom of the sea behind:Fabulous kingdoms piled with golden toilAnd the slow garnering of mortal dreams:Such as lured forth the splendid sails of Spain.So, journeying, we, in hope of that great spoil,Steer hardily through all conflicting streamsOf Ocean, and count all the exultant battling gain.

TO LILLIE

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!As a maiden, who wakes,Opening eyes on a worldFilled with wonder and light,After a sleep of dreams.Issuing, clad in a robeOf blue, and silver, and green.From the tents of God in the eastComest thou; as a thoughtSlippeth into the mindOf a maid, awakened from sleep,By the swallows, under the eaves,Twittering to their young;As a flower awakens in Spring,After the sweet warm rainsPass away, and the sunNourishes it; and slowThe curving petals unclose.And a presence escapes from its heart,An odour remote, and vague,Trembling upon the air,A frail, mysterious ghost,That comes and goes on the wind,Like the inspiration of God.Lovely thou art, O Dawn!Coming shy as a maid,At nightfall, to meet her loveBy the ricks of clover and hay.They speak not, but handsMeet hands, mouth mouth, and desireBroods like a God in the night,Under the yellow moon:They speak not, having all things.Lovely thou art, O Dawn!Healing comes in thine hands,The wide sea laughs at thy birth,The multitudinous wavesRipple about thy feet,For joy at thy coming; the birdsShake the dew from the leaves,Shake the song from their throats;The full ewes call to the lambs;Lowing, the cattle comeTo drink at the reed-fringed pool,Bending, they drink, and liftDripping muzzles, to gazeWith patient, satisfied eyesOver the plenteous earth.While slowly out of the fens,And heavy plough-lands the mistRises to greet thee, and spiresOf thin blue smoke, that ascendTrembling into the calmWindless air, and floatFrom the habitations of man.Man, too, cometh forth; but heScarcely regards thee: with eyesBent to the earth he comes,Busy with cares of toil,Plotting to gain him ease,Meat, drink, and warmth for his age:Plotting in vain! He goesOut of the ways of life,Utterly frustrate, and spent.Gone, who was king of thy fields!Gone, who was lord of thy flocks!Like a dream. And his children forget,Even they, too, that he was.They turn to their toil, and eat,Sleep, drink, as of old he did,Spinning the woof and the warpOf life, on the Looms of StoneWhich the Fates rule, and God.Yea, we are labourers all;Even as bees for manGather the honey from flowers,So do we labour for GodUnwittingly. Yea, and the daysBringeth to each his reward,A final sleep and a peace.Swiftly they pass, the days,Winged with flame are their feet,Devouring us and our kin,As flame the stubble consumes.But the grain is garnered, perchance,In the great, wide barns of God,Laid up in a golden heap,As a wise king's treasury isHeaped with the yellow gold.Lovely thou art, O Dawn!Creating, out of the dark,This bright, and beautiful worldAgain: and leading each dayAs a bride to man, whence heBegets him wonderful deeds.And, surely, because thine handsLead us at last to peace,Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!Coming shy as a maid,At nightfall, to meet her loveBy the ricks of clover and hay.They speak not, but handsMeet hands, mouth mouth, and desireBroods like a God in the night,Under the yellow moon:They speak not, having all things.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!Healing comes in thine hands,The wide sea laughs at thy birth,The multitudinous wavesRipple about thy feet,For joy at thy coming; the birdsShake the dew from the leaves,Shake the song from their throats;The full ewes call to the lambs;Lowing, the cattle comeTo drink at the reed-fringed pool,Bending, they drink, and liftDripping muzzles, to gazeWith patient, satisfied eyesOver the plenteous earth.While slowly out of the fens,And heavy plough-lands the mistRises to greet thee, and spiresOf thin blue smoke, that ascendTrembling into the calmWindless air, and floatFrom the habitations of man.

Man, too, cometh forth; but heScarcely regards thee: with eyesBent to the earth he comes,Busy with cares of toil,Plotting to gain him ease,Meat, drink, and warmth for his age:Plotting in vain! He goesOut of the ways of life,Utterly frustrate, and spent.Gone, who was king of thy fields!Gone, who was lord of thy flocks!Like a dream. And his children forget,Even they, too, that he was.They turn to their toil, and eat,Sleep, drink, as of old he did,Spinning the woof and the warpOf life, on the Looms of StoneWhich the Fates rule, and God.

Yea, we are labourers all;Even as bees for manGather the honey from flowers,So do we labour for GodUnwittingly. Yea, and the daysBringeth to each his reward,A final sleep and a peace.Swiftly they pass, the days,Winged with flame are their feet,Devouring us and our kin,As flame the stubble consumes.But the grain is garnered, perchance,In the great, wide barns of God,Laid up in a golden heap,As a wise king's treasury isHeaped with the yellow gold.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!Creating, out of the dark,This bright, and beautiful worldAgain: and leading each dayAs a bride to man, whence heBegets him wonderful deeds.And, surely, because thine handsLead us at last to peace,Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

TO MISS DORA CURTIS

April with her fleet, sweet,Silver rain, and sun-rays,Cometh, and her feet beatLightly, on the lawn.Softly, for her sake, breakFlowering the wet boughs;By the brimming lake, wakeLilies every dawn.Broken on the stream, gleamRays, to drown where weeds wave;Shining with her dream, seemApril's eyes bedewed.Shakes a silver chain, rainChiming with her music;Life, that long hath lain slainRiseth up renewed.Softly as a dove, LoveCroons beneath the twilight;While the winds above moveSoftly through the night.Out of all the skies, diesLight, and only stars shine:Stars to me her wise eyes,And her face a light.

April with her fleet, sweet,Silver rain, and sun-rays,Cometh, and her feet beatLightly, on the lawn.Softly, for her sake, breakFlowering the wet boughs;By the brimming lake, wakeLilies every dawn.

Broken on the stream, gleamRays, to drown where weeds wave;Shining with her dream, seemApril's eyes bedewed.Shakes a silver chain, rainChiming with her music;Life, that long hath lain slainRiseth up renewed.

Softly as a dove, LoveCroons beneath the twilight;While the winds above moveSoftly through the night.Out of all the skies, diesLight, and only stars shine:Stars to me her wise eyes,And her face a light.

My life was woven long ago,Or ever this our earth was fair,With mingled threads of love and woe,Hate, tears, and laughter, hope, despair.Yea! it was made ere water was,Ere snow fell, or the bright dew shoneUpon the tender blades of grass;It sate and dreamed its life alone.Ere golden stars swam through the blueOf heaven, singing as they came,God wrought into it every hue,And gave it wings and feet of flame:A little thing of His own breath,A word that trembled into song,To fall through mists of life and death,A frail thing conquering the strong.All things that in the heavens are,The silver-hornéd sailing moon,The golden fire of every star,Through seas of time shall slip and swoon,And be as if they had not been;But through the darkness of the night,Through silence of that peace serene,Lo! I shall fashion mine own light,Remembering earth's shining streamsAnd all the heavens' starry grace.Yea, dreaming once again the dreams,Which were the beauty of thy face.

Ere golden stars swam through the blueOf heaven, singing as they came,God wrought into it every hue,And gave it wings and feet of flame:A little thing of His own breath,A word that trembled into song,To fall through mists of life and death,A frail thing conquering the strong.

All things that in the heavens are,The silver-hornéd sailing moon,The golden fire of every star,Through seas of time shall slip and swoon,And be as if they had not been;But through the darkness of the night,Through silence of that peace serene,Lo! I shall fashion mine own light,

Remembering earth's shining streamsAnd all the heavens' starry grace.Yea, dreaming once again the dreams,Which were the beauty of thy face.

April 10th, 1909

Ah! the golden mouth is stopped,That so sweet was with its song,Bright, and vehement as fire.Grieve we, as a star had droppedOut of Heaven's singing throng,For the lord of our desire.Bring we blossoms, lilies bring,Such frail blooms as lured of oldProserpina from the Hours:All this April's lavishing,Flame of sudden crocus-gold,Sudden foam of starry flowers.Spring hath slain the lord of Spring:He, whose song was fire and dew,Lieth in her lap, and slainBy her, whom he loved to sing,As she came, with sandals blue,Through the shifting rays, and rain.Ah! the golden mouth is stoppedWhence the whole of April's song,All her sudden, wilful fire,All her stores of honey dropped.Yet about our ways they throng,Words he winged with his desire.

Ah! the golden mouth is stopped,That so sweet was with its song,Bright, and vehement as fire.Grieve we, as a star had droppedOut of Heaven's singing throng,For the lord of our desire.

Bring we blossoms, lilies bring,Such frail blooms as lured of oldProserpina from the Hours:All this April's lavishing,Flame of sudden crocus-gold,Sudden foam of starry flowers.

Spring hath slain the lord of Spring:He, whose song was fire and dew,Lieth in her lap, and slainBy her, whom he loved to sing,As she came, with sandals blue,Through the shifting rays, and rain.

Ah! the golden mouth is stoppedWhence the whole of April's song,All her sudden, wilful fire,All her stores of honey dropped.Yet about our ways they throng,Words he winged with his desire.

Little one, so soft and light,Haunting silent, darkened ways,In the shadow of the night,Thee I praise.Such an elf as danced of old,Light as thistle-down or froth,By Titania's throne of gold,Little Moth.What strange fate linked thee and me,In this world of hope and fears?Surely God hath sheltered theeFrom our tears.Hands thou hast, and eyes that seemTroubled, by some pain obscure,As though life were but a dream,Nothing sure.Is thy tiny spirit vext,As our own, by vague distress,Haunted, by our life's perplextWeariness?Wondering, at all the strangeLoveliness of lapsing days;Change that passeth into change,Rain or rays?Little hands that cling to me,Helpless as mine own, and weak,What in this world's mysteryDo we seek?

Little one, so soft and light,Haunting silent, darkened ways,In the shadow of the night,Thee I praise.

Such an elf as danced of old,Light as thistle-down or froth,By Titania's throne of gold,Little Moth.

What strange fate linked thee and me,In this world of hope and fears?Surely God hath sheltered theeFrom our tears.

Hands thou hast, and eyes that seemTroubled, by some pain obscure,As though life were but a dream,Nothing sure.

Is thy tiny spirit vext,As our own, by vague distress,Haunted, by our life's perplextWeariness?

Wondering, at all the strangeLoveliness of lapsing days;Change that passeth into change,Rain or rays?

Little hands that cling to me,Helpless as mine own, and weak,What in this world's mysteryDo we seek?

TO DOROTHY SHAKESPEAR

Mine eyes have seen the veiled bride of the night,Before whose footsteps souls of men are blown,As are dead leaves, about the wind's swift feet.Wherefore great sorrow cometh through my song:A wind of grieving, through the branches wet,When all the alleys of the woods are litWith yellow leaves, and sere, and full of sighs.Through the bare woods she came, and pools of lightWere darkened at her coming; and a moanBroke from the shuddering boughs, and all the fleetLeaves whirled about her passage, with the throngOf her lamenting ghosts, who cried regret,And passed as softly as the bats that flitDown silent ways, beneath the clouded skies.Wherefore I grieve, that no more in my sightAre mortal women lovely. I am grownAmorous of her lips with kisses sweet,For her deep eyes in their enchantment strong.Yea! I am wasted with my passion's fret:Restless, that my poor worship may not quitThe pure light of her face, which made me wise.Great peace she hath, and dreams for her delight,Wherewith she weaves upon the Looms of Stone,Choosing such colours as she deemeth meet,Gold, blue, and vermeil skeins; and there amongHer spools of weaving threads, her dreams begetLife, from her nimble fingers and quick wit,Mirrored in mortal life, which fades and dies.These are made whole and perfect in the brightBroideries of her hands, while by her throneMove unborn hours, which in her cave discreteShe hideth, though her secret thoughts prolongSoft moments mortal hearts so soon forget,Bright, supple forms, with swift limbs strongly knit,Moving as light in dance as melodies.Wherefore, though in the cold I wail my plight,And wander, through the hoary woods, alone,Hunted, and smitten of the wind and sleet,Among these rooted souls, I would not wrongThe intense white flame of beauty mine eyes met,And married for a moment: in this pitMy blinded soul feeds on her memories.Go, thou, my song! Tell her, though weeping, yetHer face is mine: such joy have I in itI cannot shut the splendour from mine eyes.

Through the bare woods she came, and pools of lightWere darkened at her coming; and a moanBroke from the shuddering boughs, and all the fleetLeaves whirled about her passage, with the throngOf her lamenting ghosts, who cried regret,And passed as softly as the bats that flitDown silent ways, beneath the clouded skies.

Wherefore I grieve, that no more in my sightAre mortal women lovely. I am grownAmorous of her lips with kisses sweet,For her deep eyes in their enchantment strong.Yea! I am wasted with my passion's fret:Restless, that my poor worship may not quitThe pure light of her face, which made me wise.

Great peace she hath, and dreams for her delight,Wherewith she weaves upon the Looms of Stone,Choosing such colours as she deemeth meet,Gold, blue, and vermeil skeins; and there amongHer spools of weaving threads, her dreams begetLife, from her nimble fingers and quick wit,Mirrored in mortal life, which fades and dies.

These are made whole and perfect in the brightBroideries of her hands, while by her throneMove unborn hours, which in her cave discreteShe hideth, though her secret thoughts prolongSoft moments mortal hearts so soon forget,Bright, supple forms, with swift limbs strongly knit,Moving as light in dance as melodies.

Wherefore, though in the cold I wail my plight,And wander, through the hoary woods, alone,Hunted, and smitten of the wind and sleet,Among these rooted souls, I would not wrongThe intense white flame of beauty mine eyes met,And married for a moment: in this pitMy blinded soul feeds on her memories.

Go, thou, my song! Tell her, though weeping, yetHer face is mine: such joy have I in itI cannot shut the splendour from mine eyes.

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